


Leonie Dreamed

by CynaraM



Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, PWP, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Smut, Swearing, as in character as I could make it, glovefic, somewhat out of character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 03:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4944868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynaraM/pseuds/CynaraM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets followed by a short story - all of it smutty. Also contains my only pining!Cabal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leonie Dreamed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on the last two stories of my "Friendship is Unnecessary" series, and that much plotting just requires a smutty holiday.

Sometimes Leonie dreamed of a quiet, cruel voice and a gloved hand pushing up her dress. In the dream he wasn’t going to stop, and she didn’t want him to. There was a rustling of her underskirts and the slip of kid leather against her stockings and then against her bare thighs, and she came awake with her heart pounding. She had a queasy sense of having done something wrong. But she wished she had found out where those hands were going.

....

The other dream started with her walking, very slowly, across the room towards a seated blond figure (yes, it was him, of course). Then she was blind with her body pressed into a wall, and someone (him, of course) behind her, breath hot on her neck. Fingers through her hair, pulling her head back, and a mouth on her exposed throat. Pulled back like a strung bow between him and the wall. She felt quite calm.

Then one arm trapping her against him, hand moving roughly over her body, assessing her, learning her shape and her involuntary shudders as he passed over her breasts, that hollow in her hip. She moaned when his lips brushed her ear, and he spoke into it in an undertone while gently pulling at her nipples, running nails over her flesh. Pinned between teeth and harsh syllables and fingers careful and merciless as medical instruments, she came when she was ordered to. He stepped away, and she crumpled to the floor. In the aftermath, she trembled with blissful, terrifed anticipation.

....

She was stretched out on a slab, cold at her back, immobile while her clothes were cut away. Gloves again, this time surgical gloves and a mask. She felt an intense, erotic anticipation of the dissection she knew would follow, drawing aside her skin for the exposure and study of her hidden organs and sinews. She knew it wouldn't hurt; after all, she was dead.

....

She knew she took someone’s place. His occasional cruelty, his rare tenderness told her that. “You left” he had once said, and she begged forgiveness and promised she would never leave him again. They were both in deep water that day, saying things that couldn't quite be passed off as games.

She would stay until the price ran too high: she knew she was in his bed (metaphorically speaking, at least; beds did not feature prominently) because she reminded him of her. For now, it was enough. One day it wouldn't be. One day the cold little void at his centre would chill her too deeply, and she would recognize the beginning of the end.

She could imagine the pain on his face when she left - and it would hurt him, she knew. The soulless could still love. That was the horror of it.

***  
***  
***

Lying on the stone floor, she heard his shirt brush against the flagstones and his faint, irritated sigh as he shifted, trying to find an even place to sleep. She turned her back to sleep on her side. He brushed her by accident, and then there was a long time of quiet while her mind wandered. Well, wandered - or stayed relentlessly preoccupied by one thing. She listened to his breathing. It was clearly audible, in the narrow space. She wanted... It wasn't safe to think about what she wanted.

They had been too much together, lately. She knew the witch-hazel astringency of his aftershave and the contrasting faint sandalwood of his soap. She could see scepticism in the tilt of his chin, hear fatigue under his brusque tones. She could tell he was hungry by his incessant pen-tapping, and she knew the stillness that meant he was putting an unwelcome thought back in its box. She wasn't sure what he'd learned about her, but she would lay money it included a list of her faults. She lay in the dark and listened to his regular breathing. And tried not to think about closing the small space between them - which would render their association cripplingly awkward, she reminded herself. She drifted a little.

And then, in her dream - or not? - she became aware of a presence at her back, close enough to feel warm. It was pleasant, and she thought about it vaguely. And... a hand, at her waist. She couldn't repress an intake of breath. Relief, lust. His hand was warm on her side, across her belly, over her dress, and she expelled the breath in a betraying shudder. Her heartbeat shook the locket around her neck. Oh please, she thought, please.... The touch moved slowly up her abdomen, brushing the lower swell of her breast with slow fingertips.

If he stops now I will kill him, she thought. I will murder him in this passageway and I'll have to find my own way home. And slowly and deliberately, he moved his hand lightly over the fabric of the bodice and over her breast. The half-contact was maddening, barely grazing her nipples. She tilted her head back, pushed her breasts out, pushed her rump lasciviously back into the body that was suddenly definitely there. Could he be possessed by some sort of demon? Did she actually care?

He took hold of her waist, and pulled her close in to him. She heard the ghost of a groan, and he pressed close, biting her neck, and it was her turn to cry out softly. His fingers flirted with the neckline of her dress, then flicked open a button and slipped under it, gently trapping her nipple. She had worked a hand back between their bodies, and she was rewarded with his gasp and shudder when her fingers found the tightly confined bulge in his trousers. She ran her nails over the fabric. He pulsed and his fingers tightened involuntarily on her breast in a half-painful way that made her arch again, pressing into his hand, his cock. God, she wished she dared turn around and see him, watch his face.

She cooperated avidly when he pulled up the hem of her dress. He hesitated for a second, but she growled and wriggled out of her drawers. His arm under her held her back against him - the other hand pulled her leg back over his, spreading her wide, her skirts spilling over both of them, her ass firmly against him.

She had thought herself into such a state while trying to sleep that she was already wet and slick to his first brushing touch. What, she wondered wildly, had come over Cabal? Perhaps he had suddenly discovered her charms - here, in the middle of the night, in the disused tunnels under the temple of a forbidden cult. No, perhaps not. She was confused. Confused, but delighted. Delighted and… she lost interest in the train of thought and happily decided that lucidity was not her priority.

The rhythmic slip and slow spread of his fingers between her legs was glorious. Two fingers tried her entrance, and she gasped and nodded in blind pleading, spreading her thighs and wriggling a little higher on his body. She rolled her hips into him, and there was something hot and hard between her legs. She ran two fingers down his underside and heard him hiss in a gasp through clenched teeth. His flat stomach contracted, thrusting against her fingers. She guided him against her slick folds, his cock rubbing her clit; she murmured in her throat and closed her legs a little, to give him more friction, and he moved slowly against her, one hand splayed on her stomach holding her close, the other at her breasts and in her hair, pulling her head back gently in a way that made her melt and tense.

She shifted her hips in a way she hoped he would understand. _Get inside me_. This was the man for whom she had practically had to draw a diagram to explain Lady Ninuka's interest, was it not? And yet he seemed to understand: experience or instinct or perhaps her mental screaming making it clear. _Fuck me now. Whatever you have, I'll take it, just do it now, please please please._ On second thought, she hoped he couldn't hear the screaming.

_Oh. Sweet. Blessed. Jesus_. This might be her favourite part, the slow slick stretch of the first deep penetration that set off lights behind her eyes and unhooked her mouth from her brain. _OhgodyesJohannesohgodyesyesyes_.... And his clever fingers started a slow, deliberate caress around her clit in time with the deep, measured thrusts that shifted her breasts and she didn't know whether to push back at his cock or forward at those curling, shifting fingers. _Mynecromancer,mycabal,donteverstop_. If there was anything wrong it was that it couldn't last forever. She didn't need to chase her orgasm with images and words and fantasies. This floor, with her skirt rucked up behind her and this wanted felon with his breath harsh on her neck and his cock hard as steel between her thighs. That deadly, lovely quickening of the pace was all she wanted. She was close, and she stroked and clasped him with her internal muscles, and smiled to hear him gasp and curse behind her and to feel his urgency grow.

When it took her, she convulsed and clamped down hard on his cock in rolling shudders of orgasm. She had a fistful of his shirt in one hand and the other was clasping the arm around her waist - she moved it to caress the underside of his shaft as it slipped in and out of her. He was silent as he came, but he held her tightly enough to leave bruises. He whispered something in the moment after, perhaps her name.

*

Morning. Or whatever time it was in the tunnel. Cabal was already awake, and she.... She had dreamed. She considered whether she could sell Cabal on another hour's sleep, and what her chances were of finding that dream again. She just hoped she had slept quietly. Cabal was the lightest sleeper she'd ever met.

"We shall try the rightmost branch first."

Cabal was examining the progress of the tunnel as she stretched herself awake. She had definitely not been ravished in the night. More's the pity. He looked back at her impatiently, nodding in the direction of their path. "Give me one blessed minute, Cabal. I'm a single solid ache after that floor."

Johannes Cabal watched Leonie Barrow tousle her hair into symmetry. Next, he knew, she would grimace and twist her torso, stretching her back. He could tell when she had slept well, and when she hadn't. He knew the string of freckles on her wrist: a fair approximation of the _Serpens Caput_ constellation. She knit her brows when she felt guilty about something. There had been a rough patch on the heel of her boot since Edinburgh. And just now she had a curl on the wrong side of the parting in her hair, and his fingers itched to correct it. He wanted… it wasn’t safe to think about what he wanted.


End file.
